The Back of the Turtle (23 page)

THE GYM WAS EMPTY. DORIAN TOOK HIS TOWEL AND WATER
bottle to one of the elliptical trainers. A hard thirty minutes on the random-hill program. Free weights. Grab a shower.

He’d call Olivia from the condo.

Toshi could damn well wait until tomorrow.

The price of freedom is energy? Had he actually thought that? Thank God he hadn’t said it out loud.

Winter hadn’t seemed too impressed with Dorian’s insight on democracy. It was true, of course, but anyone with half a brain knew that democracy’s enemies weren’t the real danger.

It had far more to fear from its friends.

Dorian settled into a nice pace on the trainer and let his mind wander. A list of man-made disasters? Why would anyone do that? Such a list would be endless. More to the point, why would a sane man put such a list on the walls of a house? Kitchen and living room, bathrooms and bedrooms.

The front door.

Dorian closed his eyes and tried to retrieve the photograph that Security had taken of the front door.

Kali Creek.

That’s what Quinn had written on the front door in capital letters.

Kali Creek.

Amazing how the past could find its way back to the present. Amazing how simple things could go so very wrong.

DORIAN
had been in Spain—Valencia, to be exact—when the Kali Creek accident happened. Spain had been Olivia’s idea. Neither of them could speak Spanish, so his wife had hired a young woman to come to the house two evenings a week to tutor them in conversational Spanish.

“We could just hire a guide when we get there,” Dorian had offered. “Someone who speaks English.”

“Where’s the fun in that,” Olivia had scolded.

Galiana Ruiz was from Barcelona, a short, slender woman with dark hair and a brilliant smile. It was the first thing that Dorian noticed. Galiana’s smile.

“You will love Valencia,” she told them. “It’s not Barcelona, but it is a very artistic town, and right on the Mediterranean.”

Dorian missed most of the evening lessons, but he was impressed by his wife’s progress.

“
Dónde està el bañjo?
Do you know what that means?”

“No idea.”

Olivia lowered her voice as though it were a secret. “Where’s the bathroom.”

Dorian had to admit that the phrase could come in handy. “How do you say, ‘Where’s the best hotel in town?’”

“Galiana says my accent is
muy buena.
”

KALI
Creek.

It had been a series of mistakes, each one compounding the others, Domidion had been building a pipeline across the interior of British Columbia. The work had been slow: trouble with environmental groups and First Nation communities, problems with the terrain and the thick underbrush.

Then a mid-level manager decided to try a shortcut. Instead of removing the undergrowth with chainsaws and machines as the crews had been doing, or using a standard herbicide that hadn’t proven to be all that effective, this particular genius called main office and got another equally bright light to send Domidion’s newest agricultural product into the field.

GreenSweep.

Everyone in the world knew about Agent Orange, the defoliant that had made its name in the 1960s during the Vietnam War, as part of the U.S. military’s Ranch Hand program. It was a chemical combination of two phenoxyl herbicides that had been contaminated with dioxin.

GreenSweep was a bacterium. The only commonality between the two defoliants was the use of a colour in the names. Dorian tried to remember who had come up with “GreenSweep.” Someone with a sense of humour.

ON
the first leg of the flight, from Toronto to Zurich, Olivia had read sections of the guidebook to him. Dorian had wanted to settle back and watch movies, but his wife insisted that they needed to know what was waiting for them when they landed in Manises.

“Don’t you want to be surprised?”

“I don’t want to miss anything.”

“We can’t see all of Valencia in a week.”

“We should stay for two weeks at least.”

“I can’t take two weeks off work.”

“Las Fallas is in a few days,” said Olivia. “And we have to see the Valencia Cathedral and the central market.”

Dorian wasn’t sure why seeing a cathedral was important, or a market for that matter, but Olivia assured him that it was.

“Valencia was founded as a Roman colony in about 138
B.C
. Can you imagine that? Many of the buildings in the old town date back to the fifteenth century. That was before America was discovered.”

“Not sure I want to be in a building that old.”

“There’s the Torres de Serranos, the Turia Gardens, and the Silk Exchange. Valencia is going to be fun,” Olivia told him. “You’ll see. We’re going to have a great time.”

On the third day of their Spanish vacation, just as they were heading off for breakfast at a small café recommended in the guidebook, Dorian had received the phone call about Kali Creek. Olivia had not been pleased with the situation.

“Surely there is someone at the corporation who can handle this,” she said. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“I’m the CEO.”

“You’re also my husband, and I’d like us to spend some time together.”

“They wouldn’t have asked me to come back if it wasn’t serious.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You could come with me.”

“What about Las Fallas?” Olivia had flashed Dorian a glance that drew blood. “And we haven’t seen any of the shops in the Casco Antiguo.”

“Then you should stay,” Dorian had said. “If I can get back, I will.”

“You won’t.” Olivia shook her head. “You enjoy disasters too much.”

It wasn’t true, of course. He didn’t enjoy disasters. Disasters were disruptive. More than that, they were bad for business.

GREENSWEEP
hadn’t gone through any of the testing protocols. It wasn’t supposed to have left the storage facilities.

The first mistake.

The recommended dilution ratio for GreenSweep was 1000:1. The GreenSweep that was loaded onto the plane in Terrace, British Columbia, was only diluted 10:1.

Yet another mistake. A mistake no one caught until after the plane had dumped its load into the Kali Creek watershed.

The effect had been immediate. Given the mountainous terrain of the area, the presence of streams and tributaries, and the impossibility of controlling the application, spraying
any
defoliant on such a landscape would have been an environmental nightmare.

And GreenSweep hadn’t been just any defoliant.

Dorian had seen aerial photos of the area. Everything GreenSweep touched had died. Trees, undergrowth, animals, fish. Everything. It was only luck that the clearing crews had not been in the vicinity when the plane went over.

The damage might have been limited, but that afternoon, an unexpected storm had come out of the northwest, driving heavy rain in front of it, and the downpour had washed the bacterium into Kali Creek.

And from there, it found its way into the ocean.

DORIAN
had not really enjoyed Valencia. The architecture was interesting, but the buildings were old and smelled of age. The streets in the old town were narrow and mysterious, but there was an air of danger to the shadows and the darkened doorways. The small shops were intriguing, but there was nothing in any of them that Dorian wanted. He had liked the central market best of all, with its triple-arched doorways and interior dome. There were large hams hanging on hooks, cheese wheels stacked on each other, an endless variety of seafood glistening on beds of fresh ice. Everywhere you looked, there were booths filled with spices, fruits, vegetables, and baskets of mushrooms.

But even here, the moment had been spoiled by vendors who recognized Dorian and Olivia for what they were—rich North Americans—and called out to them at every turn.

Olivia spent much of the time smiling and saying, “
No, gracias,
” over and over again. Galiana had been right. Olivia’s accent was excellent. For all the good it did.

There was a mother-daughter team who caught them in one of the parks and insisted they each take a flower and then demanded payment. Dorian had given the flowers back, but the two women had dogged their heels all the way back to their hotel.

When they got to their room, Olivia had flung herself on the
bed. “God,” she had shouted at the ceiling, “but that was wonderful.”

The morning that the call came, Dorian had hardly been able to smother his delight.

KALI
Creek had been a catastrophe. GreenSweep had carved a path of destruction all the way to the coast. The surprise was just how virulent the bacterium had remained even after it had been diluted with salt water. It had destroyed all life in the bay and pushed the kill zone out into the ocean some twenty kilometres.

And it would have been front-page news had it not been for the earthquake in Japan and the resulting tsunami that destroyed the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear facility. The meltdown there might have been prevented if officials had acted sooner. But they hesitated, and, by the time they finally did open the valves and flood the exposed rods with sea water, it was too late.

For the next month, every news outlet settled on that single story, and when the anchors, the correspondents, and the on-site journalists finally looked up from their press kits, Kali Creek had been subsumed and forgotten in the more powerful images of nuclear Armageddon.

DORIAN
increased the incline and leaned into the machine. The whirl of the mechanism and each breath he took echoed in the silence of the empty room. It felt good to have his heart pumping, his body sweating. Maybe he’d do a longer workout. Maybe
he’d stay on the trainer for the rest of the evening. Turn the session into an overnight marathon.

How far could you go on one of these things? Montreal? New York? Valencia?

He picked up the pace. How hard would he have to push to break the trainer free of its moorings?

That would be fun.

Dorian Asher, executive extraordinaire, astride an exercise machine, chasing Thicke, Toshi, Khan, and a herd of Zebras along Yonge Street in the middle of rush-hour traffic; knight errant, bearing down on fools and felons alike.

Now, that would be something to see.

SONNY LIKES THE OLD YELLOW SCHOOL BUS. HE LIKES TO
climb into the driver’s seat and pretend to turn the wheel. Sonny presses on the gas pedal and works the shift. First gear. Second gear. Third gear. Fourth gear. When the bus is going too fast, Sonny steps on the brake.

Safety first. That’s Sonny’s motto when he’s driving children to school. Safety first.

Sonny flips the turn signal on and looks to his left. If it were a clear day, he would be able to see the town from here.

Sonny flips the turn signal and looks to his right. If it were a clear day, he would be able to see the reserve and the top of the water tower.

Sonny, the bus driver.

Sonny, the tour guide.

Maybe the ghost Indians would like to take a ride with Sonny. He could show them the sights. The Smoke River, Canyon Falls, the turtle beaches, the Ocean Star Motel. Sonny could tell them all about Samaritan Bay and its history.

In the beginning, there was nothing. That’s how Sonny would start. In the beginning, there was nothing.

Sonny would not point out the hot springs, even though
they are a local attraction. And he would probably avoid any mention of That One Bad Day. Tourists like happy things when they’re on holiday. They like things that make them smile. They like to take pictures of bright business and magic moments.

Sonny is sure that the ghost Indians would enjoy such a tour.

Wham.

And if they really liked the tour, they might give him a tip.

Sonny steps on the brake and brings the bus to a halt. Enough driving for the day. Everybody off! That’s what Sonny tells the children. Everybody off!

Sonny checks the bus to see if there is anything left that he can use for his tower, but even the windshield wipers are gone. Two of the bench seats are missing, but the rear seat is still there. That is Sonny’s favourite seat, especially when there aren’t many people on the bus.

Like today.

From the rear seat, Sonny can watch the entire bus. When he’s not driving the bus, he likes to sit here. Some days, if he is sleepy, he stretches out on the seat and takes a nap.

Today, Sonny is not sleepy. Today, there is work to be done.

Sonny steps off the bus, walks to the security fence, and hangs off the wire.

Wire.

That’s what Sonny needs.

Wire.

If Sonny had some wire, he could weave it through all the pieces of the tower. Then the tower would be strong. Many of the towers in Dad’s stories fall down or they burn or they’re
abandoned. Sonny doesn’t want his tower to fall down, and if he had some wire, it wouldn’t.

Sonny takes out his wire cutters, but the fence wire is too thick and rigid. He could cut the single strand of barbed wire that runs across the top of the fence, but that wire is covered with thorns. If he makes his tower with this wire, people might call Sonny’s tower “The Tower of Thorns.”

The Tower of Thorns.

It’s an impressive name, but tourists might be wary of something called The Tower of Thorns. They might not want to have their picture taken next to something sharp and dangerous.

The Strong Tower.

The Tower of Power.

The Guiding Light Tower.

Those would be better names.

Okay, okay, now Sonny just has to find the right kind of wire. Not too strong. Not too weak. Not too thick. Not too thin. The just-right wire.

Wham-wham!

That’s it! Of course! Sonny knows where he can find the wire he needs. He springs off the fence and tests the wire cutters on the thorn wire.

Snap.

Nice and sharp. Nice and sharp.

Sonny hangs on the fence, rocks himself back and forth, for in his mind, he can see the tower, can see the beacon lit, can see the fire’s radiance slicing through the gloom.

And he trembles as he wonders what such a light might find in the darkness.